Kismet
by Bambu
Summary: A collection of mature one-shots, featuring various Hermione Granger pairings. Written pre-DH and quite AU. Character deaths will be referenced, but none shown.
1. A Choice of Words

**A Choice of Words**

By Bambu

**Disclaimer and Author's Notes**: The underlying source material belongs in its entirety to JK Rowling (save where she has sold her rights to various entities). Other than my readers' enjoyment, I make no monetary profit from exercising my imagination and honing my skills as a writer.

This was written during my quest to write every fanfiction story type (songfic, one-shot, drabble, novella, novel-length, epic, PWP). This was my third or fourth attempt to write a PWP. Fortunately, the Smutty Summer Alphabet Challenge (July 2006) was offered on Live Journal, and I chose 'whisper, erotic, and porn' for use in this one-shot attempt to write a PWP. I think I managed a credible non-plotty piece.

This is definitely for mature readers.

~o0o~

'Erotic,' she whispered.

'Porn,' he replied, nipping at her inner thigh, drawing an unwilling moan from her mouth. His lips curved in a wicked smile, and he inhaled the musky overtones of her scent as her interest piqued.

This was one debate he was determined to win.

He moved his head slightly to the left, unerringly homing in on the one spot he knew would have her quivering in a boneless heap of pleasure. Her curly pubic hair tickled his nose, and he flicked his tongue through the tangle of protective hair, directly on target.

She arched off the bed, whining in the back of her throat, "Erotic!"

He nuzzled deeper, licking her again, tasting the tart flavor of her arousal.

"Porn," he mumbled, his mouth occupied. Slender fingers threaded through his burnished copper hair, spasmodically clamping as he laved her hooded nodule of flesh.

The vibration from his speaking caused her thighs to tremble with anticipation, and her breathing grew ragged. "Erotic," she panted.

She rocked into him and he held her hips steady.

He drew his head back for a moment, sure that his triumph was close at hand. A wicked grin spread across his lightly freckled face. He was easily recognizable as one who had graced the cover of last month's _Witch Weekly._ They had referred to him as one of three most eligible bachelors in wizarding Britain. A distinction he cared about not in the slightest.

Rather, he reveled in the sight of the witch splayed across his bed.

Curly brown hair spread in a corona around her head, enhancing her surprisingly delicate features and generous mouth. Her brown eyes were heavy-lidded and her cheeks were flushed.

She licked her lips, and his already erect cock jerked in response. He wanted nothing more than to bury himself in her wet heat, but his fiercely competitive nature refused to give in to baser need.

The source of their dispute laid a hands-span from her head, opened to page three-hundred-ninety-four.

It was the magical _Kama Sutra,_ and page three-hundred-ninety-four was their favorite position. He said the book was thinly disguised porn, and she, being the refined witch that she was, insisted it was erotic literature.

Their debate had been rather heated before he lost his temper, grabbed his wand and stripped them both naked.

That had been ten minutes before. He was sure that with a little more incentive she would agree with his declaration. She was on the verge of climax. He recognized the signs, having learned every intimate detail about this witch over the past few months.

Before the end of the Voldemort War, he had only thought of her as ickle Ronniekins' best friend. That changed the afternoon they had run into one another at Gringotts. He knew she had become a Curse Breaker, but he thought she was stationed in Paris. Apparently she had just been transferred to the bank's London branch.

After he had made his deposit, he offered to treat her to lunch. She had accepted, and now, six months later, she was in his bed, and had become an indispensable part of his life.

He bent his head again, inhaling her rich scent. He loved the way she smelled.

"Porn," he pronounced, then nipped her clit, plunging three fingers into her, hooking them into her G-spot.

Hermione nearly came apart, convulsing around him, a flood of feminine release coated his fingers. She gasped for breath.

After a minute or two, he felt her tug on his hair. He let her pull him up for a kiss, their tongues sinuously twining against one another's. Then, breaking the kiss, he rested his forehead against hers, feeling the sweep of her long eyelashes as her eyes fluttered.

Opening his eyes, blue met brown, and he smiled the smug grin that his mother knew meant mischief, but was in this instance a softer, more indulgent expression.

While he was wallowing a little in self-congratulation, he dropped his guard.

Suddenly, Fred Weasley was reminded that it only took an instant for tables to be turned, and he found himself lying flat on his back with an armful of wriggling Hermione. His hips bucked as she brushed against him, and his throbbing erection demanded attention.

Fred loved that she was feisty.

She leaned across him, her breasts rubbing against the red hair dusting his chest, and without his realizing it, she grabbed her wand from the bedside table. With a flick and a swish, the silk coverlet transformed, growing four manacles to bind him to the bed in a spread-eagled position.

He glared at her, but when he saw the mischievous gleam in her eyes, he snapped his mouth shut on the retort he had almost given.

He did not like to lose.

Hermione draped herself across his body, licking the pulse point on his throat. "Erotic," she whispered in a purr.

Fred's stomach lurched in an entirely pleasurable way, and she began suckle his slightly sweaty skin, in just … that … spot.

"Nnnnh," he groaned.

Instantly, Hermione angled back and up, straddling him. Bracing her knees on either side of his hips and her palms on either side of his head, she hovered an inch above him. So close her curly pubic hair tangled with his, a merger of red and brown, glistening with the evidence of her earlier release.

He refused to concede, but his voice almost gave him away. It sounded like a growl. "Porn."

She cocked her eyebrow, and swayed back on her knees, her long hair trailing after. Its texture was silky and soft, and it teased his sensitized skin.

He arched up when she flicked her tongue over his crinkled, male nipple. "Aaahhhnnn."

Proving herself the cleverest witch of her generation, Hermione settled into a sitting position, directly on his groin. His cock twitched as she ground herself onto him, trapping his erection between her body and his.

Fred felt moisture leaking from his glans, and she was so damp from her earlier orgasm that she slid easily along his length as she rocked back and forth above him. His hands clenched into fists and he tested the strength of his silken manacles. He wanted nothing more than to put his hands on her hips and thrust into her.

Instinctively, he bucked into her, wanting that friction, that delicious tightening of his scrotum which signaled his own release.

He panted for control when she rose off his body, leaving him unsatisfied and needy. Opening his mouth to say the word she wanted, one look at her triumphant gleam had Fred biting his tongue.

He shook his head.

Hermione cocked her head and smiled.

Fred shuddered. He _knew_ that smile.

He was in so much trouble.

She moved up and off him completely, repositioning herself between his spread legs before kneeling at the apex of his thighs. Her eyes traveled over him like an _Incendio_, leaving his skin hot and tingling. Several curling tendrils of her hair tickled his inner thighs, and she dipped her head toward his groin.

Fred breathed through his mouth in short, ragged gasps. She wasn't even touching him, but he could feel her blowing air through the nesting curls of his groin, and then across the tip of his glans. Their combined liquid essences chilled, and gooseflesh broke out on his thighs.

"Erotic," she whispered, and engulfed his pulsing, needy erection in one smooth mouthful.

His eyes rolled back in their sockets and he arched upward, straining for completion.

She sucked, her head bobbed, and he shuddered at the tugging, pulling sensation.

He was so close.

She released him with a resounding _pop_.

Fred's heart hammered in his chest and he _needed_ to come. Just one more stroke, one more touch would do it. But her eyes were sparkling, and he knew she was waiting for him to capitulate.

However, she had made a small error. Her wand was lying next to the open book, where the pictured witch and wizard were contorted into Fred's favorite position. They demonstrated the effectiveness of the angle. Fred gritted his teeth as the pictured wizard arched his back and shuddered into the naked witch.

Splaying the long fingers of his right hand as widely as possible, Fred barely touched Hermione's holly wand. But it would be enough. He had learned to cast releasing spells in that fashion when testing the latest Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes invention: _Captivating Candies, for those moments when one reallys wants a captive audience._

With a non-verbal _Finite Incantatem_ his bindings released. Instantly Fred lunged, catching Hermione off-guard, and before she could gasp, he had her lying on her back and he was nestled firmly in the cradle of her thighs.

Her eyes were wide and startled, but she granted him a nod of recognition.

Their reflexes had been honed in the last days of the war. Neither had lost that quickness of reaction which meant the difference between survival and death. It was rare that Fred could take Hermione by surprise, and he smirked at her. "Porn!"

He loved it when she tilted her chin just like that. He thought it was the defining mannerism of her personality.

Then her eyes narrowed, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, rolling her hips sinuously against his erection. "Erotic," she replied.

Fred groaned and kissed her, possessively. He cocked his hips, wriggling himself into position, ready to sheathe himself in her tight, wet, heat.

What she did next completely unmanned him.

Hermione brushed a sweat-drenched strand of hair off his face.

It wasn't that she moved the hair out of his eyes. It was the gentleness of her touch and the tenderness of her expression.

In an instant, their play had gone from competitive playfulness to something entirely serious.

In one swift thrust, Fred sheathed himself completely within her and he kissed her again.

She clutched his shoulders and he thought he might have nail marks afterwards, but he didn't really care. He was exactly where he wanted to be. He slowly pulled back, until he had almost withdrawn from her entirely, and then plunged again.

"Unh," she grunted, and tightened her muscles around him.

It wouldn't take more than two or three strokes for him, but Fred wanted her to come as well, so he angled his hips and thrust again, hitting her clit with his pelvic bone.

Her gasp told him he had been successful, and her arms and legs were trembling with impending climax.

He nipped at her lower lip, and she lifted her head from the pillow to follow him as he rose over her. He thrust again, heat spearing through him.

Then once more.

Her sharp cry filled his ears and he shuddered, ejaculate spilling into her. Hermione's muscles milked his release, spasming around him.

Trembling biceps reminded him to prop himself on his elbows, and he was flush against her body, her breasts pillowing his chest, her lips seeking his.

Fred happily obliged her, tasting the flavor of their combined essence on her tongue.

He loved it… he loved _her_.

Fred jerked back, breaking the kiss. He stared at her.

Hermione's expression changed from surprise to query to concern.

He dipped his head to brush her lips with a chaste kiss, and he slipped from her nether embrace. He angled back onto his knees, resting his head on her stomach.

Great Merlin, he loved her. He loved Hermione Granger.

He had to tell her.

Raising his head, he saw a fleeting, entirely naked and revealing expression cross her face. He had only seen it once or twice before. After the final battle, and shortly after she'd broken up with Ron.

His heart clenched again; this time entirely different than the last. Fred didn't want her to wait another second, but they were still engaged in that stupid competition. There was no prize other than the satisfaction of having made the other capitulate.

If his surrender eased the worry he now saw furrowing her brow, then it was losing was insignificant. Before she could speak, or begin to put up barriers between them, Fred took a breath and said, "Erotic," ending their game.

At that same moment, Hermione said, "Porn." The two words linked, sounding as if they had both said the words, "Erotic porn."

A fleeting smile curved Hermione's mouth, but then she looked away from him.

Fred couldn't stand it.

Abruptly, he sat back on his knees, gathering her to his chest.

"Oh!" Hermione exclaimed, her attention once more on his face.

Fred threaded his fingers through her messy hair, cupping her head. "Don't fret," he said, his voice husky. "I had a moment's inspiration."

Her chin tilted. "You had an inspiration for a joke product during sex?"

"No, you daft bird! It wasn't that. I wasn't thinking of work at all." He was appalled at the thought.

She pursed her lips.

It was difficult to put the feeling into words. What he felt was so much more complex than three monosyllabic words could express, yet sometimes simplicity was best.

"I love you," he said.

She gasped, and one hand flew to her mouth, delicate fingers covering her lips. Her eyes glistened with sudden tears. "Do you mean it?"

"I just said it, didn't I?"

"Yes. Yes you did."

Her body trembled, and then it felt as if he was being choked by the arms she wrapped around his neck. Hermione was crying and laughing at the same time.

Fred hugged her back.

After a few minutes, she released him, and the smile on her face was radiant.

"Well?" he demanded. "A bloke likes to hear it as well."

"You pillock!" She brushed his lip with her thumb, the caress belying the tartness of her words. "Of course, I love you."

Fred's throat tightened unexpectedly. He hadn't considered what it was like to be the recipient of such a declaration. It was bloody brilliant.

Her eyes shone, and she moved against him, wrapping her legs around his hips, shifting until they were in a position described on page two-hundred-twelve.

It was one of Fred's favorites.

A fresh spark of desire kindled in his groin. He smoothed large hands down her sweat-slicked back and cupped her bum. He could feel the heat of her rekindled arousal.

A small, competent hand glided across his chest, tweaking his nipples; it traced the dusting of red hair down across his abdomen, threading through his nest of curls, wrapping around his tumescent shaft.

"Guh," was as articulate a response as he could muster, given that one of her fingers had found the bridge of soft perineal skin behind his scrotal sac.

"Erotic," she corrected in a whisper.

~o0o~


	2. Spoils of War

**The Spoils of War**

By Bambu

**Summary**: Sometimes there are treasures to be found in the aftermath of war.

**Disclaimer and Author's Notes**: The underlying source material belongs in its entirety to JK Rowling (save where she has sold her rights to various entities). Other than my readers' enjoyment, I make no monetary profit from exercising my imagination and honing my skills as a writer.

Please note there are mentions of character death, but none depicted. Any resemblances to injuries or deaths in DH are merely coincidence. Written in 2006, this was my first attempt to write a PWP, but it ended up as plot with a little tender loving comfort.

~o0o~

A thin finger traced the outline of her lips, the touch so light it barely made contact with her sensitized skin. Her breath grew ragged, her nipples so tightly budded they ached to be touched. Almost reflexively Hermione moved her right hand to do just that, to give in to her need, only to be stopped by a low whisper, "None of that."

The sound of his voice caused her breath to hitch and a delicious pulse to throb in the hooded nerve bundle in her mons. He had been silent thus far, and she had kept her eyes closed as promised. He wasn't entirely comfortable with the physical demonstration of their relationship yet, and she had easily read his unease when it came to being nude in front of her.

He had been so broken when she found him during the final raid on the Riddle House, manacled to a wall and left to rot in a dark broom closet. No one would have ever known if she hadn't smelled him in passing. Pity initially moved her to save his life, flouting the mandates of the Ministry by hiding him at her parents' - now her - home.

No one knew that she had found him, that he remained alive, that she had healed him, or that she was going to make him hers.

This was that night.

He was an entirely willing participant.

She heard it in the harsh sound of his breath, the quick intake of air past his imperfect teeth, and then what she had waited for happened. He nuzzled her neck just below her ear, where her pulse fluttered rapidly in time with her heart.

He nibbled her skin, and she quivered in response.

Anticipation raced through her body, sped by the flood of adrenaline and desire. She hummed in approval and angled her head, expecting him to kiss his way down her neck. But he surprised her by tracing a path with his tongue along the tendon of her throat, over her collarbone.

Arching her back she hoped for some contact with her tingling nipples.

It had taken months before he was healthy enough to venture beyond the guest bedroom, and those first few weeks had been fraught with continual worry. Hermione had never known what to expect when entering his room in the mornings. After the first week, when she had barely left his side, he managed to speak. Almost his first words had been to ask for privacy while he slept. She had honored his wishes, with the caveat that she be allowed to check on him. Grimly, he had acknowledged his need with an abrupt nod of his head.

Sometimes when she had stuck her head into his room he was sleeping peacefully, bandages and unguents undisturbed. At other times, he was thrashing in his bed, struggling with the covers, attempting to call for help he never expected to receive. His voice would sound half-strangled and strangely subdued in his fear of being overheard by those who would torture him further, even as his primitive need overrode that fear.

There had even been times when she had found him on the floor, where he'd flung himself in a desperate attempt to flee the monsters of his nightmares.

After the first three months he no longer flinched when she touched him, and he understood why she used so little magic.

The Ministry of Magic kept her under discreet surveillance.

Aside from a constant barrage of owls from Molly Weasley and Remus Lupin, the world believed the young woman was wallowing in her grief. In the course of a single night, the wizarding world had been saved and Hermione Granger had been robbed of her entire family and closest friends.

Other than a brief statement given to the Ministry's Aurors - Kingsley Shacklebolt survived the bloodbath at Riddle House and Hermione had refused to speak with anyone else - and a single interview granted to Luna Lovegood for her father's magazine, Hermione had holed up in her Muggle home. She had cast as many protection spells and wards on the house as possible, and by the end of the war, she had been familiar with _many_ esoteric spells.

After four months, the Ministry had removed active surveillance; after seven, they only sent weekly owls asking whether she had changed her mind about leaving the wizarding world.

Hermione's replies were always vague, implying that she was healing slowly and only wanted her privacy. Whatever fragile trust she had ever held in the governing body of the wizarding world had been shattered time and time again.

It was fortunate she wasn't the only survivor of the decisive battle; public attention had moved on from a reluctant, press-shy Gryffindor to Pansy Parkinson. The former Slytherin had been revealed as a spy for the Order of the Phoenix, and gave frequent and gracious interviews.

Hermione was delighted to relinquish her position in the spotlight.

The reprieve had given her time to devote to her patient. Healing him had required tenacity, a characteristic she had in abundance.

During ten months, they had overcome many obstacles to reach a point of intimacy, and, for her at least, there was no going back. Severus' touching her now, like this, was a sign of how diametrically her life's expectations had changed.

Two fingers plucked at the nipple of her right breast, drawing her attention to the here and now. _Oh god,_ she thought, almost lunging off the soft duvet, aching for more contact, more stimulation. She rotated her hips, clenching her internal muscles in an attempt to ease her growing need.

His dark chuckle only fueled her desire. "Do you want this, little witch?"

"You know I do." She gasped as she spoke, for he had rolled her nipple between his fingers, causing an electric jolt from point of contact directly to her womb.

His removed his hand and she almost growled.

"And now?" he asked just before his mouth captured the tightly furled peak of her breast, his tongue flicking against the needy tip.

"Unh." As someone known for speaking her mind Hermione couldn't manage a more articulate response.

It had taken months before he had spoken to her beyond two urgent questions: _Why are you doing this? When are the Aurors coming?_

Gaining his trust became important to her. It became her only goal.

She had long respected him, had wanted his approval, even if her faith had been broken at one point. After bringing him into her home, Hermione had wanted to understand _something_ in the horridly inverted reality her life had become.

When he finally believed his welfare was important to her he began to talk.

At first, their conversations were abrupt and clipped. However, after one sneering comment that she couldn't possibly understand the misery of his life, Hermione had levitated his scrawny arse through the still-wrecked portions of her home – caring for him had been a full-time activity for months – telling him in vivid detail about the deaths of her family, her friends, her enemies.

Severus had been silent for a week following that confrontation, but it was a turning point for them both.

Now his silence was welcomed as long as he kept doing _that_ with his mouth, and _oh, Nimue_! Hermione moaned in response to his flicking the tip of her other nipple with his fingers.

No one had ever done that to her before.

"I have to touch you," she almost begged.

He removed his hand from her body. "We have an agreement."

"Please," she whined, writhing a little.

"I will not do this with a little girl." The bed dipped as he moved away from her.

"You idiot!" She almost spat her reply, abandoning their agreement altogether and opening her eyes.

He was sitting at the foot of her wide bed, shoulders slumped and head bent.

Instantly she was remorseful, but knew better than to approach him physically. At least yet. "Sorry. I know I said I wouldn't touch or look. I know we've discussed this, Severus, but it seems unfair that I'm the one who receives all the pleasure."

His head whipped in her direction, and for a fleeting moment, his face was all naked emotion. "You do not think I get pleasure from touching you?"

"Who's the one fully dressed?" She pointed at him before continuing. "And who's nude?" A twitch of his lips might have been a smile, and Hermione chose to take it as such. "Don't you understand yet? I _want_ to touch you, Severus. I _want_ to be with you like this."

"I do not think so." His spine stiffened and his shoulders were rigid. "It is one thing to heal a person's body and quite another to have that ugly, battered body touching yours intimately." The look he gave her then was filled with darkness and pain. "Trust me, Hermione; it is not a pleasant experience."

Like a Snitch she was off the bed, kneeling at his feet – nude.

A supplicant.

"I'm sure it wasn't pleasant." She spoke softly. "I'm not belittling your experiences, but don't _you_ understand? There was no bond of affection in your past encounters." If possible, his body stiffened further, but she hurried on. "They couldn't have felt for you what I feel for you."

She rose on her knees and Severus angled backward in surprise.

Placing her hands on his wool-clad thighs, Hermione pressed herself between his legs until her breasts were brushing against the linen of his shirt. She looked into his eyes. Even though they were naturally dark, they were now so dilated they resembled nothing more than pieces of shiny obsidian.

Holding his gaze, she whispered with obvious sincerity, "Look as deeply as you must, or as you wish. I'm not prevaricating. I want to touch you, to know you as a man."

Once again she heard his breath whistle between his teeth, and the flash of vulnerability on his care-worn face pierced her heart. Very carefully she cupped his cheek with the palm of her hand and silently rejoiced when he leaned into her touch.

His eyes fluttered closed, then she dared ask once more, "Please."

In an instant, his arms wrapped around her like _Incarcerous _and she was pulled into his kiss. It wasn't their first kiss, but it was their first as lovers, for lovers they would soon be.

He stiffened once again as her fingers brushed past the remains of his ear on their way to fingering his baby-fine, oily hair. When he didn't pull away she moaned, and their tongues twined with one another.

Once he had begun to open up to her, it had taken the better part of two months before he told her the entire story of the events which had taken place atop the Astronomy Tower. It had taken even longer for her to understand his motivations and the orders he had been given. When she fully comprehended the circumstances, she had been ready to kill Albus Dumbledore all over again - for his willing surrender of so many good people: Neville, Hagrid, Percy Weasley (who had been Dumbledore's spy and died before his family knew the sacrifices he made for the cause,) Draco Malfoy for being a pawn in a game between two powerful wizards, every Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher Dumbledore had hired knowing they couldn't possibly succeed in their position because of Voldemort's curse, the Potters, the Longbottoms, the Prewetts.

But the betrayals which had hurt the worst were those which cost Hermione most dearly: Harry and Ron and Ginny, her parents, and even Snape.

Out of all those she couldn't save this wizard was one she was hell bent on rescuing. That her entire heart had been given in the process was unexpected, but not unwelcome.

They broke their kiss and she hugged him to her tightly, feeling his lean body pressed to hers.

"Hermione." His voice was raw with emotion, and she heard the unarticulated affection beneath the single word.

"Hmmm?"

"I would be willing to compromise."

She pulled back enough for him to see the brilliance of her smile. "Thank you."

Then, with trembling fingers, she unbuttoned his shirt, stroking each centimeter of uncovered pale skin as if she had never touched a man before. Her touch was reverent, instinctive recognition that this experience was more than a physical coupling.

The unevenness of their commingled breaths proved that both knew the moment was significant.

When her fingers found the first ropy scar she looked deeply into his eyes then dipped her head to his chest. Gently, she kissed the barely healed flesh before laving her tongue along the crest of the ridged fold.

He hissed, his fingers threading through her thick hair, flexing almost convulsively.

By the time she reached his navel, which had been sliced open at one point and was now a livid flap of skin, he was actively groaning and holding her head against him. It was as if her touch healed more than his body.

Leaning back, her palms smoothed up his torso, easily skimming the myriad scars, pausing to finger the flat discs of his nipples as they pebbled beneath her attentions.

"I want you naked." She cooed. Small hands, following the dictates of her desire, swept across his bony shoulders and down his arms, taking the navy linen with them.

He moved his hand from her head, the shirt sliding from his arms before Hermione's hands reached his. Their palms met and their fingers interlaced for a moment. He angled his hands, drawing her closer.

She smiled again before kissing him. This time skin met skin and they bent their arms so that when they released their fingers their hands were close enough to reach shoulders and faces.

Once they broke their kiss, each was slightly breathless, and they rested for a moment, foreheads pressed together. Hermione's eyelashes brushed Severus' closed eyes, and she angled her head away from his.

His eyes opened to meet her straightforward, unwavering gaze.

"Stand up," she directed, then raised an eyebrow before she spoke again, "please."

He almost smirked, a mannerism she had forgotten so long had it been since she had seen it.

He rose and she leaned back, her face level with his groin. Hermione reveled at the sight of the straining fabric and a freshet of moisture gathered between her legs.

Her mouth actually watered in anticipation.

When his hands began to unfasten the button on his waistband, she stopped him with her fingers. Instantly his eyes met hers, and she knew that while he trusted her he was too damaged not to question every step toward intimacy.

Kissing the back of his hand, she said softly, "Let me."

His shoulders relaxed and he dipped his head in acquiescence.

Unfastening his trousers and lowering the zipper, Hermione discovered he had forgone pants, revealing a thin goodie trail leading to a nest of silken curls. Leaning forward she buried her nose in the vee formed by the opened zipper, inhaling the musky scent of his arousal and the soap he favored. His erection jerked in its cloth prison and she wrapped her hands around his narrow hips to his firm bum.

Slipping her hands under the waist of the trousers, she mimicked her earlier maneuver with his shirt, pushing down while tilting her head and allowing his turgid cock to spring free of its restraints.

One of his hands balanced lightly atop her head as if he was afraid of forcing her in any way. As a wizard who had been forced to commit heinous atrocities, she appreciated his self-discipline.

There was a droplet of liquid seeping from the tip of his glans, gleaming in the candlelit room, and she quickly glanced upward seeking his permission. His face was tense and focused, and she suddenly comprehended this was a pleasure with which he was unfamiliar.

It occurred to her then that allowing a woman this sort of access was dangerous for a man who had lived so long on the edge. Her heart rejoiced at this further evidence of his trust.

While waiting for him to accede to her unspoken request, Hermione wasn't beyond resorting to bribery. She flicked her tongue between her lips to lick the enticing bead of liquid off the sensitive head of his erection.

He grunted and his fingers tightened against her scalp.

Taking the gesture as assent, and before he could utter any form of protest, Hermione engulfed his silken textured shaft in her mouth.

Involuntarily, Severus bucked his hips and she smiled as she pulled back, sucking as she moved. His fingers tightened in her hair while she proceeded to lick, suckle, and kiss. He rocked gently with her actions, simulating coitus, and she relished the sound of his ragged breath.

Her heart expanded with exultation.

One of her arms wrapped around his hips again, holding him close to her, and her left hand reached between his legs to fondle his scrotal sac.

His hip motion ceased. It was as if he expected her to stop the moment her fingers found the scar tissue where his absent testicle had been severed from his body.

Hermione didn't stop. She knew about the wound. It had been one of the first healing spells she used after his rescue.

When she slid her other hand around to stroke his erection while giving more direct attention to its mushroom head, his hips moved once more. Hermione began to sway on her knees, needing more than this stimulation to assuage her own quickened desire. She dropped her hand from his scrotum; her fingers fitting between her legs, dipping into the wetness she found coating her thick curls.

He spoke abruptly. "Hermione."

Compelled by the sound of his voice, she stopped.

His hands found her shoulders, urging her to a standing position. As she rose, her knees cracked loudly in the quiet room.

He smiled at her when she flushed. It was a real smile, born of real affection. He caressed her cheek with a finger whose knuckles made it perfectly obvious they had been broken a time or two, and then he took her hand - the one which she had used on herself - and brought her fingers to his lips. First he took a deep breath, almost growling, "Delicious," before he sucked her index finger into his mouth.

She shuddered, her smoldering need blazing to life. "Ooooh, yes! S-s-s-s …"

As if that was all he waited for, Severus took control, proving that he was still capable of asserting himself. Within seconds, they were lying on her bed, the cotton soft beneath her back, and he was fitted between her legs, his arms bracing his body at an angle above her.

She felt his proud erection poised at the entrance to her body and knew he wouldn't proceed without further acknowledgement.

Their eyes met . . . and held.

She wrapped her legs around his hips, urging him to complete their joining. "Please." Her voice was barely a breath of air between them, but it was more than enough.

Without closing his dark eyes he granted her request, and slowly, ever so slowly, so that she felt every movement, every stretch of unused muscles, he entered her.

A strange sound escaped her throat; it could have been his name or a promise to the deities, she would never know, but he lowered his head to kiss her, never breaking eye contact. It was the most intimate experience of her life, and she kissed him with all the fervor of her wounded but living soul.

Where he got the strength from she didn't know - only much later realizing he had used some form of nonverbal spell – he captured her hands, raising them above her head. Then while their hands were linked he snapped his hips, plunging the rest of the way into her.

Hermione gasped at the sensation, but didn't look away. Severus' eyes were open, his feelings shining clearly in their depths.

Locking her legs tighter around his hips, Hermione rocked in the rhythm they found easily and she tightened her inner muscles.

Severus grunted and she smiled.

Coiling tension built deep in her abdomen and her eyelashes fluttered but she held her eyes steady on his.

"Brave little lioness." He purred before rotating his hips, speeding up his thrusts as if he couldn't last much longer.

The change in angle meant that his pelvis impacted against her throbbing clit on each thrust. It was just enough to take her to the brink.

She panted. "Cunning serpent."

Their rhythm grew ragged as they neared climax, but neither broke eye contact.

He lowered his face to hers, nipping her swollen bottom lip; her clit throbbed from the additional stimulation. "Now, Hermione. Come for me now!" He bucked against her hard, spasming his own release deep within her.

That demand - spoken in a voice she had been conditioned to obey since she was eleven and desperate to prove that she belonged - was all she needed to tip her over the edge. It might be a dozen years later, but she now knew she belonged. Only it wasn't the wizarding world to which she belonged. It was to him.

"Severus!"

Her body shook, muscles constricting around his erection, still sheathed deep within her. Her eyes wanted to do nothing more than close as her spine arced and her legs contracted in reaction to her orgasm, but she held onto him tightly and kept her eyes open.

It wasn't Legilimency, but magic sparked between them, and Hermione _knew_ that for the rest of her life there would never be anyone else for her.

Severus panted with exertion, but managed to release one of her hands to gently lift a stray curl clinging to her mouth. Aftershocks continued to ripple through her body as he brushed her lips with his, and his voice was soft when he spoke. "I doubt they are the words you want to hear, but I am uncomfortable with professions of love. I have seen how that word warps people. But you are mine, Hermione. I will not give you up."

"Yes," she cried, throwing her arms around his neck and pulling him atop her fully.

Their eye connection was broken, but it was all right.

The magic they had woven was still present. It surrounded them, weaving an invisible lemniscate between them: an infinite, living bonding.

She whispered, "Just as much as you are mine."

He rose to his elbows and nudged her with his large nose. She smiled at him and his mouth quirked in the funny half-curve which was the equivalent of a grin on Severus Snape. "I do not know why you want me, but I am yours for as long as you do."

Tears welled up in Hermione's eyes and her throat was tight with emotion. "It's a good thing wizards live a long time, Severus, because I'll want you as long as you live."

Tenderly she brushed his hair from his face before he moved off her; then grabbed her wand from the night stand. A flick and a swish, and a gentle cleansing spell of his crafting washed over them both. When she rolled over to place the vinewood back on the walnut table, Severus moved behind her, spooning her against him. His numerous scars were ridges against the smooth skin of her back, but Hermione hoped to feel him like this every night.

"Good night, Pet," he murmured, his breath evening out into the patterns of sleep.

"Good night, love," she replied, pulling one of his hands between her breasts, over her heart. Her last thought before she fell asleep was the rest of the world could take care of itself. She had all she wanted - all she deserved - right here in her arms.

And she was going to keep him no matter what.

~o0o~


	3. Inheritance

**Inheritance**

By Bambu

**Disclaimer and Author's Notes**: The wondrous world of J.K. Rowling's imagining does not belong to me, nor do I financially profit from it. The underlying source material belongs in its entirety to JK Rowling (save where she has sold her rights to various entities). Other than my readers' enjoyment, I make no monetary profit from exercising my imagination and honing my skills as a writer.

I wrote this piece in honor of SnarkyWench's birthday in 2008, the year before _Deathly Hallows_ was published. It remains strictly AU. Quite frankly, this is a bit crackfic; I finally succumbed to my fascination for Veelas.

~o0o~

My attention was so focused on the report I was finishing for the Minister I paid no attention to the shadow darkening my cluttered desk until, simultaneously, his shadow blocked the light and my office door slammed shut. There were only two men in all of wizarding Britain who did that, and I knew for a fact Ron was on his honeymoon.

Without looking up, I snapped, "Go away! I haven't time for your games today, Malfoy. I have to get this scroll to Level Twelve before noon."

I charged the dripless quill Harry and Ginny had given me the previous week for my twenty-sixth birthday, and only after I wrote another two sentences did it occur to me that Malfoy hadn't replied. A spark of foreknowledge assailed my senses, and I shivered before looking at my impromptu visitor.

It was Malfoy. He looked more fey than ever before, and I wondered what was wrong. He was never one to keep his mouth shut when a drawling insult could provoke attention. But he just stood there, staring at me.

"Malfoy?"

He didn't respond.

He was breathing hard, his chest heaving as if he had been chased by a wild Bludger. Normally the fringe of his moonlight pale hair draped across his brow in a dramatic sweep, drawing attention to his most spectacular feature: his eyes.

But not today.

Today, his hair was disheveled, sticking wildly in all directions. And his eyes - they weren't their normal Nordic grey. They were glowing.

Malfoy opened his mouth to answer me, but suddenly, he turned his head to the side as if to listen for something beyond the range of normal hearing. Every muscle in his body tensed and he drew his wand.

That unnerved me.

Rising from my chair, I groped for my own wand.

Malfoy paid no attention to me; instead, he turned to face the door. I could hear loud voices, a number of them shrill with excitement, the words indistinct.

Alarmed, I asked, "What's going on?"

He whipped his wand in a complicated motion, and with a non-verbal spell, locked the door. Another swish of his wrist and the cacophony beyond the door was silenced.

He still hadn't said a word.

"Malfoy?" I stepped from behind my desk, and he finally turned to look at me. His head was cocked at an odd, almost bird-like angle.

In the five years since the war ended, Malfoy and I had found a way to work together amicably, even harmoniously. If he was in my office because he was in trouble, then I would offer my assistance. Just as I would help any friend.

Honestly, I had come to admire Malfoy.

After the war, when I first learned about the task Voldemort had set a sixteen-year-old wizard, tendrils of sympathy had wrapped around my heart. Knowing he stood little chance against Dumbledore, Malfoy had nonetheless been desperate to save his parents. During the course of that fateful year, his entire paradigm began to erode.

Despite Dumbledore's death, Voldemort had never intended Malfoy to succeed.

Voldemort had used Snape's intervention as his rationale for killing Malfoy's parents in those first hours after Dumbledore's death. Snape had barely saved his own life, let alone Malfoy's. The Unbreakable Vow tethered Snape to his charge, and a more vicious and capable defender one couldn't find. The two fled more lethal repercussions, recuperating at Snape's run-down home at Spinner's End. While there, they had provided the Order of the Phoenix with information. Lots of information.

Details of Snape's relative innocence plastered across the _Daily Prophet _for weeks after Voldemort's demise. I remembered feeling nothing but relief when he was pardoned. Malfoy had been lucky. He had been a minor, and his participation coerced, during that horrific year before Snape killed Dumbledore. In the end, he paid a rather hefty fine, but retained his freedom, his fortune, and his home.

Malfoy had worked to redeem his family's reputation ever since.

On several occasions, his efforts dovetailed my own duties as Director of Charitable Contributions for the Ministry of Magic.

And now he was barricaded in my office, wild-eyed and disheveled.

Adrenaline such as I hadn't felt in years pumped through my body, prompting me to ask our code question, "What's Tonks' natural hair color?"

Imperiously, he threw up one hand to halt my progress, and pressed back against the door as if he was afraid. Of me.

I stopped as if hit by a Stunner. I may have faced Death Eaters from the time I was a little girl, but Malfoy's behavior scared me. I dropped my voice to a soothing tone and asked, "Are you all right?"

He moaned, and a visceral wave of desire shot through me. My nipples tightened and my knickers grew damp. I wondered what the bloody hell was happening.

Malfoy's nostrils flared as he inhaled a ragged breath.

Thinking he had been hexed, I flicked my wand in his direction. "_Finite Incantatem!" _

Nothing changed.

"Tell me what's going on, Malfoy." I couldn't keep the sharp tone from my voice. This didn't fit any scenario I had ever envisioned, but my brain raced for answers.

He opened his mouth as if to speak, and at that second, the door behind him began to buckle from an external force attempting to gain entrance. Lightning fast, Malfoy cast an impregnable Mongolian Shield. Nothing would enter, or depart, my office without his permission.

"Draco?"

When he turned back toward me, he uttered a low, predatory sound. I didn't fully understand what was happening, but my nipples furled so tightly they ached, and it seemed as if each molecule in my body was attuned to his every movement, his every breath. Somehow, my vision sharpened, and I could make out the individual strands of hair falling across his face.

My fingers itched… no… _needed_ to touch him.

I reached toward Malfoy at the exact same moment he said my name. My name. Not my father's, but the name I had never heard cross his lips in all the years I had known him.

"Hermione."

It was needy. It was possessive, and I was instantly ready to lay down my life for him.

I trembled. It was obvious that whatever was affecting me, was also affecting him. His breathing changed; it was in perfect synchrony with mine. Flicking my eyes at his entire body, I noticed a slight tenting of his dress robes.

I asked quietly, "Draco, what is Tonks' natural hair color?"

He grunted, and every hair on my body reacted.

"Answer me!" I demanded.

Malfoy closed his eyes, and whined. Actually whined.

But that attenuation of sound encompassed the word 'black,' and I knew it was him. Even if there was something terribly wrong. I inched closer to him, and whispered, "Draco, what's happening?"

He opened his eyes and speared me with a look. "Hermione." It was hungry … almost desperate.

I almost orgasmed on the spot. The sound of his voice hit every erogenous zone in my body. Heat raced up my chest, my throat, flushing my cheeks.

"I have to—" he said. "I must touch you."

My knees buckled.

Malfoy caught me.

The second he touched me, I ignited in a release as sweet as any ever experienced. I sucked in my breath, memorizing his scent: woodsy with a peppery undertone, fresh cut grass, and the musk of his arousal. I clung to him, deciding we were the victims of a malicious prank involving Amortentia or some other aphrodisiac. I asked again, "What's happening?"

"My inheritance," he said, his voice dripping with warmth and arousal. "My many times great-grandmother was a Veela."

My eyes widened, and I kept them firmly focused on his face.

I had heard rumors, of course. There were rumors about every influential family. The Malfoys had been at the pinnacle of wizarding society for generations, and with their allegiance to a pureblood agenda, no one had ever given credence to the speculation of Veela blood in the line. And yet, the signs were there: Draco's meteoric re-ascendance to prominence within the wizarding community, the ease with which people were willing to work with an ex-Death Eater, the smiles that almost universally greeted him.

My inexplicable, inescapable attraction to him.

"You shouldn't tell me this," I said, briefly glancing at the window ledge, at my beautifully manicured and maintained bonsai.

I bit my lip hard enough to draw blood, and I reminded myself Malfoy had never shown that sort of interest in me. There was a crowd chasing him; he wasn't here for me. He was here to hide. Unexpectedly, tears welled in my eyes and I tried to back away from him.

"No," he growled and pulled me against his body.

The evidence of his need pressed hard against my stomach. I looked at him in confusion, even as my pulse fluttered and my back arched.

"You don't understand, Granger." His eyes were luminous, a whirlpool of quicksilver, and he dipped his head toward mine.

When his lips pressed against mine, I made a choice, supported by every enthusiastic fibre of my being. Veela were known to be prodigiously sensual, and he was probably driven by his inherited genetics. Even if this was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, I would willingly suffer the heartbreak later.

He nuzzled me, playfully, and then suckled on the raw part of my lower lip. He made that noise again as he licked the blood I had drawn moments earlier.

Magical energy pulsed along my spine, enhancing my awareness: the sound of our ragged breathing rasped in my ears, and the texture of his skin was as smooth as the finest Acromantula silk; starbursts of light flickered on the inside of my eyelids, and his taste marked itself indelibly in my psyche. Malfoy tasted of tea and toast and some ineffable quality that was distinctly him.

He kissed me again. A throaty groan caressed my ears as our tongues mated.

Heart pounding, I raised a shaky hand and threaded my fingers through his baby-fine hair before stroking my hand along the sweep of his spine. His muscles were taut, rippling and lean, and if he wasn't naked within seconds, I was going to combust like Fawkes on a burning day.

Without waiting for assent, as he was currently in the process of removing my skirt, I ripped his formal robes open. Like many traditional wizards, Malfoy was nude under his robes, and I rubbed my thighs together in anticipation.

Hot, slightly calloused fingers gripped my waist, and our hips met in a grind of blatant intent. Liquid desire raced through my veins, and the rigid length of his erection throbbed against my skin. He made a guttural sound, half panting breath and half groan, and it reverberated through the connection of our tongues as they swirled around one another, advancing, retreating.

Rocking my pelvis against him, I calculated how fast I could have him inside me.

His hands on my hips stopped me, barely, and he broke the kiss. His chest heaved as he dragged air into his starved lungs. "Not yet." He gasped. "You have to listen."

I nipped at his neck, and one of his hands pinched my suddenly naked nipple. "Ah, God!" I moaned the words. "Do that again."

His erection jerked against my abdomen.

I wanted that hard, pulsing muscle where it would do the most good, and I whimpered impatiently. He was almost hot to the touch when I rubbed against his body. His hips bucked in reaction, and I imagined him cradled between my thighs.

But still Malfoy held back.

One long-fingered hand splayed between my shoulder blades, holding me in place, and he angled his head in an attempt to force me to meet his gaze. "Granger." A beat. "Hermione. You must - listen. I can't wait much longer."

I suddenly realized he sounded as if he was in pain. How I wished to ease his suffering. I bent my head and licked his throat, feeling the rapid thudding of his pulse, and tasted the salt-tang of his skin. "Then don't wait."

He sounded desperate. "If we do this, you're mine."

"All right," I agreed. I would have agreed to almost anything. I _needed_ him. My hands slid to his hips, to pull him to me, but Malfoy grabbed them, and his tone was more urgent than before. "Granger, look at me!"

I looked at him. If I had drunk an entire bottle of Old Ogden's I couldn't have been more inebriated. "You have beautiful eyes, Malfoy. Did you know?"

He almost smiled as he pressed his brow against mine.

When our skin touched, every synapse in my body fired. My eyes locked onto his. I had never known _he_ was so beautiful. It wasn't just his eyes, or the external trappings, but inside, in that private place we all protect, he was breathtaking.

"I'm listening now, Draco. But can you hurry, please. I really want to shag you rotten!"

He laughed then. It rumbled in his chest, and I arched into him, my breasts pressing against his smooth unblemished torso.

"We'll get to that in a minute." His grip tightened around my hands. "You can't imagine how much I want you right now—"

"Good. Me, too. No more talking." I pulled one hand free, and snaked it around his waist, pulling him more tightly against me.

"Unh. Hermione. Don't. Do. That— yet. You have to consent."

"I already said yes." I began to nibble on his neck again, and his skin prickled in goose flesh. In his distraction, he released my other hand, and began to explore.

"But you have to understand," he said. Then his body jerked to attention. "Bloody hell, woman! Where did you learn that?"

"Um… around." I smiled.

His eyes narrowed but he didn't look away from me; he did grab my hands again, halting their mission to map Malfoy's body. "There won't be any more '_around_' after this, Granger. You will be mine."

"Fine." I said quickly. "But…"

"But?" His jaw clenched.

I stared at the play of muscle under his stubbled skin, and my mouth watered in anticipation of licking along that strong jawline. With some effort, I dragged my attention back to the conversation. "But—" I shook my head as if to clear it, attempting to control the pheromones urging me to shut up, "—you will also be mine. There will be no more '_around_' for you either."

My cognitive processes were scrambled, but dimly, I recognized what was happening. I hadn't taken Care of Magical Creatures for six years without picking up odd tidbits of information from Rubeus Hagrid. If my assumption was correct, the possibility of Malfoy's straying was nonexistent.

"Agreed." Malfoy sounded smug. He had gotten his way, although it looked as if I would thoroughly enjoy his way as well. His smile lit his face. Quite literally. It was very much the same sort of light that had radiated from his eyes when he entered my office. Only now, his skin was glowing.

I stared at him, mesmerized. He was so close.

Closer.

Then he bit me.

It hurt.

The sharp pain of his teeth rending the flesh of my throat was nothing to the searing heat of a magical branding being initiated. The branding of a Veela and its mate.

I _burned_.

Malfoy sucked the bite mark, lapping at my blood, and then he demanded, "Bite me."

"Bite you?"

He practically growled the words. "Do it."

I acquiesced. I bit down at the juncture of his throat and shoulder.

"Harder." It was a command. "You have to draw blood. And then we seal the bond."

As overloaded with sensation as I was, my academic curiosity was never entirely dormant. "Really? How?"

"You're about to learn _how_." The husky timber of his voice traveled my body like fire upon the surface of cognac, and that little nodule of flesh sheltered at the base of my mons tingled. His stare was intense. "Now bite me hard."

The coppery, salty tang of fresh blood filled my mouth when my teeth broke his skin. Its rich scent assaulted my nostrils, and my head swam with an overload of sensation.

"Don't swallow," he commanded.

"Hmmm-mmm."

"Look at me, Hermione." I did. He illuminated my office more brightly than the _faux _landscape glimmering setting on the ledge of my Charmed window. When our eyes met, the connection sizzled between us, and I felt the heat of it in the place where he had bit me.

Malfoy lowered his head and suckled at the mark he had made on my skin, then he raised his head. His lips glistened with the sustaining elixir of my life. He said nothing, lowering his mouth to devour mine. Our tongues met and our blood mingled.

I think we could have cast a wandless, non-verbal _Incendio _with the smoldering heat radiating from our bodies.

At that moment, he lifted me off my feet and strode to my desk where, with one impatient swipe of his arm, all the stacks of parchment, quills, memoranda, and ink went flying to the carpet. Abruptly, I was face down, atop the cool walnut of my desk.

Our kiss was broken when he placed me on my desk, but I turned my head and twisted to look up at him. He stood between my thighs, almost where I wanted him to be; his erection jutted out from his body, encircled at the base by a nest of flaxen curls. I dragged my eyes upward, skimming his pale goodie trail, the indentation of his navel, and the sleek dip and swell of lean muscles. Up past the sluggishly dripping bite mark and the rapidly fluttering pulse in his neck. Up past his swollen mouth, reddened from the commingling of our blood, and up to meet his hooded grey eyes.

I licked my lips, and somehow, I felt his heart begin to race.

Our need consumed us.

There was a savage joy in his tone and his words were oddly formal. "Hermione Jean Granger—" he positioned himself between my thighs, "—you are mine from this moment until the end of time."

I opened my mouth to speak, but he covered my lips with a finger, turned my head, and held me in place while he leaned over and grasped my neck. He inhaled raggedly, and shouted, "I, Draco Black Malfoy, seal this bond - Now!"

He latched onto my bonding mark with his teeth.

For a moment I was disconcerted. I wanted to face him for our first time, but then I remembered that in their most feral state, Veela resembled birds. Birds mated in this position, male dominant, latched to the rough of the female's neck with their beaks. At a later time, I would be thankful Malfoy hadn't fully transformed into a Veela, complete with beak.

My extraneous thoughts were abruptly ended when, with a single thrust, Malfoy impaled me.

I cried out. I wasn't terribly experienced despite my rather insouciant comment of '_around,_' and it had been a long time since my previous lover. Malfoy wasn't exceptionally sized, but he was thick, and I felt every centimeter of his erection as he slid past my nether lips.

Briefly, he released his hold on my neck to grunt a satisfied, "Merlin, you're tight!"

I paid scant attention. All my focus shifted internally. Awash with need, the sensations arcing between us were remarkable. I could feel him, what he was experiencing, what I was experiencing.

Pleasure. His. Mine. Ours.

It was a catalytic forging of our life forces, and the final stage of the mating ritual.

I wrapped my legs as best I could around his thighs and pushed against him, timing my thrusts with his.

He snaked a hand around my hips, finding room between me and the desk, until he found and exploited the throbbing nubbin of flesh at our conjunction. When he released my neck to suckle my earlobe, I snapped into a rigid orgasm, crying out my ecstasy.

Malfoy grunted, "Oh, fuck!" With a convulsive thrust of his hips he climaxed in great, shuddering spurts of ejaculate. Seconds later, he dropped his head onto my desk, his brow thudding against the wood.

After several moments, when his breathing was more under control, he licked my mating mark clean, sealing it magically, and then, he withdrew from my body.

I felt as limp and boneless as Harry's arm when Gilderoy Lockhart had tried to mend it during our second year at school. I didn't want to move, but I didn't like the fact that Malfoy was no longer touching me, and I managed to roll over.

He hadn't gone far. He was perched at the end of my desk.

My eyes were drawn to the mark I'd made; the mark now sealed in a permanent reminder that he was bonded to me. I sucked in my breath, and looked at him.

He was watching me, but when our eyes met, he offered his hand. It was the courtliest gesture Malfoy had ever made toward me, and it shocked me more than anything else in our encounter.

This was real.

It wasn't some torrid fantasy come to life, or a lusty one-off.

Draco Malfoy was my mate, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, 'til death we do part. And maybe beyond.

With trembling fingers, I accepted his hand as he tenderly helped me to rise from the desk. If he wasn't so gentle, I might have suspected the entire experience was something of an elaborate hoax.

His expression was wary, as if he expected me to deny the bonding.

Carefully, I raised one hand to cup his cheek. The stubble of unshaven skin prickled my palm. "What happens now?" I asked.

He sucked in a litre of air and exhaled sharply. He managed a shaky, but entirely charming, smile. "I don't really know. I haven't the benefit of asking my father or grandfather, and male Veela are rather the exception than the rule."

My mind whirled with ideas and practicalities. Such as where we would live. Would we get married in a legal capacity as well as merely being bonded? Did he want children? The questions seemed to multiply as fast as my mind formulated them.

His low chuckle brought me back to awareness. "You're thinking too much, Grange— no. Hermione. We can address all those questions undoubtedly clamoring in your head over lunch."

It was a testament to the profundity of our bonding that I didn't even consider the mess of my office, or the report I was supposed to deliver before noon.

Malfoy retrieved my torn blouse from the back of my guest chair before finding his wand. The distinct ebony wand had fallen under a corner of my desk where it had lain unheeded until now. He then flicked a spell restoring the buttons on my blouse, and turned to help me put it on.

"Malfoy! I'm not going braless." When he didn't move, I looked at him. Color had risen on his pale cheeks. "What?" I asked. "Did you pocket it?"

"Uh, no." He turned to gather his robes, and began to put himself to rights.

"Then where is it?" I scanned my office. There was no trace of lilac lace. "Draco?"

His flush was higher, but a smirk curved his lips. He was adorable, and I wanted to kiss him.

"I was in a hurry," he said.

I blushed. "Me, too."

"I'll get you another one."

He held my wand toward me, and as I accepted the slender length of vinewood, I asked, "Why would you need to?"

"I – uh - _Evanesco'd_ the one you were wearing."

"You didn't!" It would have been funny if I wasn't the one who would be braless under a thin silk blouse in the Ministry's corridors.

When he handed my skirt to me, our fingers touched and my nipples tightened. The Veela bond was alive and well and pulsing through our fingertips. "Oh!" I exclaimed.

He grunted. "Oh, is right."

"Will this always happen, do you think?"

The smirk evolved into a wicked grin, and Malfoy leaned toward me. "I don't know, but I look forward to finding out."

He brushed my mouth with his, and I threaded my fingers into his silken hair. I said in a breathy voice, "I hope it takes a lifetime."

"At the very least. I think—" He straightened to his full height.

I pulled back, looking around quickly. Aside from the mess on the floor, nothing seemed out of place. Still no glimpse of my bra, it really had disappeared.

"When did you put _that_ there?" His voice held a note of something, perhaps amused wonder.

I looked around to see what he was talking about. "What? Mal- Draco, what are you on about?"

"_That, Hermione."_

I looked to where his finger was pointing. Oh. That. "Erm- what?"

He snorted. "You're appalling at obfuscation."

"Erm…"

He leaned forward, his breath tickling my ear, and a shudder wracked my spine. When he chuckled, a freshet of moisture gathered between my legs. "Try again," he said.

I tried to stay on topic, but, really, all I wanted to do was snog him senseless. "It's been there for awhile."

"And just how long is that?" This time I couldn't identify the underlying quality of his voice.

"Since your birthday in June." I dared a quick glance. He appeared gobsmacked.

"Since—" he choked, stepping toward the wide ledge next to my window, "—since June?" He shook his head. "I wondered for months why you wasted your time to get approval for a window this deep in the Ministry."

I didn't say anything. I couldn't. I didn't know how to confess what I had done. It wasn't really significant, considering recent events, but I ducked my head. Nevertheless, I watched him from through my lashes.

Malfoy fingered the bounty of white Crape Myrtle blossoms on the miniature tree. His touch was light, the astonishment on his face still his dominant emotion. "How is it that I've never noticed this before?"

"I don't know, Draco. I did nothing to hide it."

Quicksilver eyes met mine. "What about the fruit and nuts?"

The last of the Malfoys fingered a deep red pomegranate nestled amongst an offering of apples and persimmons. The fruit rested on a wide, intricately carved rosewood platter sheltered by the branches of the large bonsai. A small wooden bowl filled with an assortment of nuts completed the triadic display.

"They've been there as well. The types of fruit and nuts have changed with the season, but I always have some." My cheeks heated, and I waved my hand at the small display I worked so diligently to maintain. I refused to start our relationship with deception. "It's the closest approximation to a woodland glade I could create in the Ministry."

He turned to face me fully then, cocking his head in what I finally realized was a typically Veela mannerism, and comprehension dawned on his face. "How long have you known?"

Blood rushed to my cheeks. "I never really knew until today. At best, it was an educated guess, based on the flimsiest of evidence."

When he laughed, I knew everything would be all right between us. He gathered me close. "How Slytherin of you, Hermione."

Our kiss was a hint of things to come, and I hummed with rising interest, drawing his hand to my breast. "I never had any real expectations. It was more like wistfulness. You're not angry?"

Malfoy fingered my nipple through the silk of my blouse, and mused aloud, "No. I'm rather pleased I don't have to explain it all to you."

My smile could have rivaled his earlier luminescence, but the mischief was all my own. "Well, some things, Draco, I'll be more than happy to let you _explain._"

"Such as?" His brow arched playfully.

"That thing you do with your tongue."

This time, our kiss was sweet and tender. It was a beginning, and I met my future as I welcomed his kiss, with all the joy and enthusiasm of my nature.

It seemed that my Veela had accepted all the traditional offerings of courtship I had carefully cultivated for his benefit.

~o0o~

Fin


	4. En Pointe

En Pointe

By Bambu

Spoilers: HBP, sort of, but insignificant.

Disclaimers: The characters belong to JKR, the imagination is all mine, and the words are in the public domain. I only claim the method in which I use them.

Author's note: Years ago, I wrote this as a birthday gift for Jules and Bunney who had challenged me to write a PWP. It took me several attempts, but I was finally successful.

As always, my thanks go to SnarkyWench.

~o0o~

Long fingers ghosted the surface of her throat, and she angled her head in an attempt to catch them with her mouth.

His low chuckle, and gruff, "Tsk, tsk," signaled her failure.

Scant millimeters above the satin of her skin, his deft fingers skimmed over her shoulder and across her collarbone, hovering above her suprasternal notch. Her lips pulsed with the need for contact, and she reclined her head against the conformable chair while he traveled the valley between her breasts. She responded to his almost-touch, skin pebbling into something resembling a shell embedded in the smooth surface of ocean-swept sand.

How she loved when he teased her, but enough was enough. She arched her back to force the issue.

He stepped away, and humor ripened the desire-laden undertones of his voice. "It seems I'll be the winner tonight, Pet."

Hermione sucked her bottom lip between her teeth, biting hard enough to refocus on something other than the throbbing eagerness at the apex of her thighs. "Think again, Slytherin. It's my birthday, I get to win."

Suddenly, he swooped over her, his movements more like a raptor's than a serpent's. "It is your birthday, and I intend to drive you _over_ the edge. Now, finish undressing and lie down."

She was already trembling with excitement, and then, his tone sent a freshet of lust to dampen her knickers even as she rose from the squashy chair to do his bidding.

The room was exactly what she had expected of him: clean elegant lines, and every piece of furniture exquisitely made; the fabrics used for the draperies, the bedding, and the upholstery had been magically enhanced to maximize comfort and luxury. There were no house colors here, simply well-oiled wood complimented by a palette of metal: bronze, gold, and silver.

The only splash of color in the large bedroom hung over the mantel. The painting had been placed there as a reminder of the way they had met, haggling over its price at Dean Thomas' gallery in London. It had been a decade following the Voldemort War, and Hermione wasn't thinking of romance when she spotted the painting in the back corner of the gallery. It had been her birthday and she had decided to treat herself to a present. In the end, she followed the painting home - to its new owner's flat – and had never left.

Now, two years later, Hermione considered _him_ the best birthday present she had ever received.

And now there was no time for a lengthy reminiscence of civil war, shifting alliances, or reconstruction as the instrument of her torture had just been pulled from its hand-hammered sheath hanging on the wall. Late afternoon sunlight glinted off the folded steel blade in his hands.

Anticipation thrummed in Hermione's veins.

They had done this only once before, after she had read a Muggle book entitled _Shibumi_.

He had been furious at first, and jumped to the wrong conclusion. "I don't do blood play! Wasn't what I had to do in the war enough? How could you—"

Hermione pulled him into bed, where they remained for two days, until his soppy grin attested to his acceptance of her apology.

Finally, she had explained.

He had scoffed at the idea their sex life needed enhancing. Still, the concept hadn't left her thoughts, and she'd ambushed him on his birthday... exactly the way he ambushed her three hours before.

She glanced at him through her lashes as her fingers fumbled with the fastenings on her skirt, fervently hoping this evening's conclusion would be as explosive as their last encounter. She shifted, surreptitiously rubbing her thighs together to ease her growing need.

His eyes followed her every movement and his smile turned smug. "Oh, this shouldn't take long at all, my pretty Gryffindor. I would wager a small fortune that you're already drenched."

She assessed his languid grace as he crossed the room, lethal blade in hand, held as if he knew exactly how to wield it. Her eyes followed the moonlight spill of his hair - grown long despite the instant familial association - caressing the breadth of his lean frame, coming to rest on the obvious bulge in his trousers.

Inhaling his redolent, musky scent, she smiled. It was a wicked smile, filled with eager knowledge.

He loomed over her. "Get on the bed."

Leaning up to kiss him, her lips met air when he backed away. Her eyes narrowed.

His smirk teased, knew exactly how to frustrate her, exactly how eager she was becoming.

Perhaps she was willing to forego this little game they had introduced between them. She wanted to feel him between her legs, filling her in the delicious give-and-take that was uniquely theirs.

With his eyes fixed on her, he angled the dagger, testing its sharpness with the pad of his thumb. He looked dangerous and entirely delectable.

_Nimue save me_, Hermione thought. Her heart sped up and her nipples contracted into almost-painful knots of flesh.

She watched him hungrily.

He licked his lips, and used the heirloom dagger to point toward the bed. "On the bed now, Hermione."

She scrambled onto the bed, laying face down across the Egyptian cotton duvet. The texture abraded her peaked nipples and an electrical jolt shot from breast to womb. She inhaled in a short gasp as the mattress dipped with his weight, and the dampness between her legs grew.

"Are you ready?" he whispered.

A thrill fluttered in her belly. "Unh. Yes."

At first he did nothing.

Anticipation built.

And he waited.

And waited.

Hermione whispered, "Bastard."

Then he laughed and laid the flat of the blade across the crest of her bum.

She jerked. Because of its angle the dagger didn't cut into her tender skin. The danger was that it so easily could.

He angled his grandfather's blade until the thin end of the wedge rested, ever so lightly, on her skin.

_Ah_.

Lazily, the cutting edge glided along the down-slope of her bum, tracing the muscles of her back, stimulating her nerve endings. A frisson of desire raced ahead of the blade's path, and Hermione's breath hitched.

_No wonder he only lasted five minutes on his birthday. This is... this is..._ Coherent thought splintered as the infinitesimal scraping tickled the baby-fine, barely there follicles of hair covering her nude body. Her nipples furled so tightly they ached.

Hermione's breath grew ragged as he grazed her shoulder blades, her spine, the nape of her neck, over her jugular. She angled her head slightly, slowly, not to drag her skin across the knife, and giving him better access.

He sucked in his breath. "Gods, Granger."

The blade faltered, and Hermione's heart clenched. This entire experiment was about trust, and she had forgotten how profoundly any demonstration of her trust affected him.

"I love you," she whispered, her words carried upon the currents of air in the warm room.

Finely honed steel skimmed her jaw, caressing her exposed cheek. She listened to the harshness of his breathing.

He angled the blade once more. The cutting edge grazed the outline of her mouth, almost but not quite hovering beyond contact.

It was all she could do not to purse her lips and impale herself on the blade's tip. Folded steel shifted and he glided it down her throat, leading with its razor-sharp edge.

Hermione took a shaky breath. The book had suggested that relaxation enhanced the experience, but she didn't see how anyone could relax with this type of foreplay. Desire threatened to engulf her in a blaze of lust, and she struggled to remain still.

And then he manipulated the damned blade over her shoulder blade, along her side, in a glissade over the smooth surface of her waist.

She breathed through her lips, panting, mouth dry. When the dagger's edge lightly scraped the back of her right thigh, the nerve endings at the back of her knee quivered in anticipation of the steel's arrival.

He paused, the blade rising off her skin.

One second … two ….

Hermione shifted, her legs falling apart naturally. She was wetter than she'd ever been in her life. Every nerve ending in her body was on heightened alert, sparking and pulsing between erogenous zones: breast, womb, pulse point, inner thigh.

Then steel, forged in a fiery crucible, grazed her calf.

He shifted and his breath was audible in short, ragged inhalations.

Her eyes fluttered open. It was difficult to remain passive when he was so close to her.

He was nude, and she didn't remember when he removed his clothes. But it didn't matter. She never tired of looking at his lean, pale beauty. Her eyes feasted upon the light scattering of hair across his pectorals and followed the spun-gold treasure trail bisecting the taut muscles of his groin. He was proudly erect, a glistening droplet of liquid crowning the head of his arousal.

She could smell his pungent saltiness, and stifled a moan in her throat. Her mouth watered with instinctive need, and she could almost taste him.

At that moment, the blade dipped along her inner thigh.

_Oh. My. Lord._

He shifted positions, bringing the tip of his erection closer to her. So close she could reach out and touch.

"You're very ready, Pet. Do you want me to stop now?" His voice had dropped in register.

It was _her_ voice, the one he used only in the privacy of their bedroom. Her heart hammered in her chest, but the heirloom dagger deliberately stayed its course, brushing the damp curl-protected surface of her labia.

"No!" She gulped. "Yes!" She was so hot, her skin felt like it was on fire, and the blade its only coolant. That razor-edge coasted along the surface of her left thigh.

_Please... please... please_, she thought.

His chuckle let her know that she'd spoken aloud. "_Please_ what?"

"I need you. I need you now."

The dagger paused, poised at the juncture of thigh and pubis. "Shall I stop?"

"Yes," she moaned in a sibilant hiss. Before she could draw her next breath, the heirloom _clunked_ onto the floor, she was flipped onto her back, and in one forceful thrust, he embedded himself to the hilt within her.

"Gods, Granger, you're so wet… so hot!"

Hermione wrapped her legs low, around his calves. It was a full clasp, maximizing skin-to-skin contact. If she could have melded with him she would have. Threading her fingers into his silken hair, she pulled his face to hers, devouring him with a kiss. Their tongues twined and danced, and their bodies mimicked the rhythm of the kiss in a primal rite.

Ripples coruscated along her nerve endings, and together they gave birth to a sound: a deep growl engulfed by a whine. Their eyes flew open, slate to mud. Power cocooned them, and their movements synchronized.

He exhaled when she inhaled, she rocked when he thrust.

It was magic.

It was potential.

And then it erupted.

Scintillating motes of light danced in the room. He slammed his hips into hers, the force of his release expelling the air in his lungs.

Convulsive spasms rocked her limbs, and she screamed, "Draco!"

She gasped for air, arching off the bed before everything went black.

When awareness crept into her conscious mind, she could hear him calling her name. Not Granger, or Pet, or Gryffindor, but her given name.

"Hermione?"

Her eyes felt heavy, but she opened them to see relief alter his features. She gently brushed a strand of his hair from his face, and his eyes shone with all the brilliance of the gemstone she wore on the ring finger of her left hand.

He grazed her lips with his, so tenderly her heart ached.

A chime _ting'd_ throughout the bedroom, and a complacent smile spread across his face. "You didn't even last fifteen minutes, Granger."

Pre-empting the crowing of his victory, she said, "It seems that you win, Malfoy."

Suddenly his eyes glittered with intense emotion. "What do I win?"

"Everything, Draco. You win everything."

"Damned right I do." And he dipped his head, once again capturing her lips to prove it.

~o0o~

Proofread 7/2016


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